I'm Coming Home (To Breathe Again)
by IronSparrow99
Summary: The Avengers are human (for the most part). Spectacular humans, yes, but still human, which means they don't get to just spring back up after a whole-freaking-lot of psychological torture. Not unscathed, and not right away. First, they have to track down an errant teammate, get blind drunk, fall in love, and plan a birthday. (***Sequel to "The Monsters Inside"***)
1. Chapter 1

New York was oddly quiet, for a mid-summer day in midtown Manhattan.

Or maybe that was just Avengers' Tower, because the city itself was still plenty loud outside of it's walls. The problem was that the inhabitants of the Tower weren't quite up to being our usual loud selves.

Mainly because it had been only twenty-four hours since our escape from the hold of the Mandarin, twenty-one since we crash-landed our getaway jet in the woods of eastern Pennsylvania and called Jarvis for extraction.

The flight home had been as awkward as I'd ever experienced – Natasha and Clint were silent in the cockpit (from which I'd been banned from entering), Dad was only talking to Bruce, Thor wasn't even _in_ the jet, choosing to fly alongside it, and Bucky and Steve were acting like middle schoolers with a crush: glancing at each other before blushing red and quickly looking away.

And it hadn't gotten any better, meaning that even being on my own floor was suffocating. My next step had been entirely predictable: to lock myself in a small lab on floor 10 (with plenty of windows. It turns out the Mandarin's base had been underground, hence the lack of natural light, and meaning that my private lab, which was thirty feet underground, was claustrophobic at the moment).

I immediately used Jarvis to start regaining the time we had lost; it was now June 21st, meaning that we'd been in captivity for over a month, and that I'd missed both my twenty-second birthday _and_ Clint and I's fourth anniversary which made me wonder: who was being tortured on my birthday? On my anniversary? Who was screaming when we should've been singing "Happy Birthday"? Were Clint and I splitting heads when we should've been out to dinner?

And nobody was sleeping at all, so instead of potentially comprising an important project, I busied myself with my bike. All it really needed was a tire change, an oil change, and a good waxing, but that didn't matter; going to sleep wasn't an option, because all I'd see would be broken glass and blood and dead eyes. And venturing outside the lab was out of the question, because then I'd see the pain and horror painted on everyone's face, hear their screams echo-

I hiss and recoil, swearing viciously as my head collides with the metal behind it. "Ow. Bad idea. _F-Fudge._ "

" _Ma'am, are you alright?"_ Jarvis asks, sounding concerned.

"I'm fine, Jay," I grit out through my teeth. "Dummy, _no_ – I swear to god, if you spray me with that, I will take a hammer to your joints," I growl at the approaching bot, equipped with his favorite fire extinguisher.

He backs off, and I lay back down, alternatively staring up at the fluorescent lights and closing my eyes against the pain. "What am I doing, Jarvis?"

"… _I believe you were working on the engine of your motorcycle, ma'am."_

"No, I meant – what are _we_ doing?" I sigh, pushing myself out from under my speedster and standing up, wincing as my head throbs. I plop down on a workbench, twirling an Allen wrench between my fingers. "The Tower's a mess, and everyone's acting like it's still 2014 and we're newly-fledged Avenger-lings. It might be worse than that."

" _My data is collaborative with that of people suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, ma'am, symptoms of which include-"_

"Mute," I snap, standing and pacing the width of the lab. "I _know_ what the symptoms of PTSD are, Jarvis. Why do you think I haven't slept – nobody's slept – since we got back? Every time we close our eyes all we get is blood and pain and screams and-" I choke slightly, shaking my head. "We missed a birthday and an anniversary, and I don't even know if Clint's trying to plan anything, because I went to the Hermit Academy and haven't seen another human being in forever…"

My rambling is cut off by something nudging my foot, and I look down to see Dummy nudging my foot with his claw arm. With a whir of servos, he swings his camera up so he was looking at me, and somehow I could almost see his anxiety.

"Hey there, screw bucket," I murmur, bringing my hand around to pat the pressure-sensitive plates on his arm. "I'm alright." _Liar._ "I won't do anything stupid." _Lies._

He rolls away, and I start to return to where my motorcycle hung, suspended in mid-air by a series of cables and jacks.

My progress is halted by the sound of glass breaking, and I stop in my tracks, suddenly sucked back into a different room, with different people.

" _I needed that missile_ _ **yesterday,**_ _brat!" Obie bellows, storming towards me as I scurry behind the couch, hoping beyond hope that this might help, even a small bit._

 _It doesn't. The larger man is just irritated by my actions, stomping towards me, his face irate as he grabs my arm, shaking me like a rag doll. "Don't you hide from me, you worthless little swine! What're you gonna do, run to daddy?" he sneers. "That won't do any good. He doesn't care. He doesn't love you."_

" _He wishes you were a boy, you know."_

" _He'd leave you for your mother if it weren't for the good press he gets from you."_

" _He supports everything I do," Obie snarls, advancing even as I shrink back. "Everything."_

 _He pushes me back, and I cry out as the coffee table shatters under me, giving way to-_

-something metal?

" _Ma'am!"_ Jarvis' voice sounds. _"Miss Stark!"_

I groan something incoherent, the air having been chased from my lungs.

" _Miss Stark, you are alright. It is June 21_ _st_ _, 2022, and you are in Avengers' Tower, on the tenth floor-"_

"Mute," I gasp, laying back on the floor.

Judging by the pain in my calves, hip, and fresh pain on the back of my skull, coupled with the fact that I was now laying haphazardly across my workbench, probably meant I'd somehow made my way from where I had been to here, fallen, and hit my head during that – that _episode._

Damn it all. If I wasn't safe in the lab, then where was I safe?

The Tower was obviously out of the question, and although I knew Dad owned a mansion upstate, getting out of New York altogether sounded like a _really_ good idea.

Not that that left me without options; the Stark family owned property all over the world, after all, and there wasn't really anywhere the suit couldn't go.

 _Let's see, there was Austin, Albuquerque, Coden, Dauphin Island, Lake Arrowhead, Milwaukee, Malibu…_

Malibu. Of course.

Because what was safer than my not-easily-accessible, Jarvis-defended, childhood home?

Not much, that'swhat.

"Malibu, then," I decide, sitting up and stretching, stepping around the worktable and making my way out the door.

"Jarvis, deliver my bike to the garage, please. Don't let Dummy touch it," I order, making my way into the nearest stairway and, after checking that the coast was clear, take off down the stairs.

The suite on the 90th floor was empty – Clint was probably filling a target with arrows and/or bullets at the moment – so it was extremely easy to enter the master bedroom, grab a duffel bag out of the closet, and throw in a change of clothes, a knife, and my bow and quiver. I grab the gun I kept on the nightstand and holster it, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and my coat and sleek black helmet off the coat rack by the door on my way out.

I make it down to level M-1, the garage, unnoticed, mainly due to the fact that I went down 90 flights of stairs, which was mostly insane.

I wheel my custom speedster out of the cargo elevator and quickly stuff the bag into the compartment under the seat, fitting the helmet over my head. "Good morning, Jarvis."

" _Technically speaking, ma'am, it is just after noon,"_ the AI replies via Bluetooth. _"May I advise against your course of action?"_

"There's nothing to advise against," I reply, sighing as I zipped my jacket and straddled the bike.

" _You are leaving the safety of those that can help you, ma'am-"_

"They're all dealing with their own crap," I mutter.

" _-and leaving New York will not help matters."_

"I don't care," I grit out, stabbing the ignition button on the bike's minimal console. "Sometimes, J, you have to run before you walk."

With that, I slam my visor down, letting the HUD light up before I push off with one foot, gunning the throttle as I slipped seamlessly into traffic.

Because sometimes, you just had to run…period. I just hoped it would help.

.

I arrived at the Malibu Mansion just after 2 am the next morning, roughly in the same state as I'd left New York in. The only changes were that I'd lost the water bottle and picked up a newspaper in Oklahoma City, about halfway through the drive. The headline read "Absent Heroes: Why have the Avengers' gone silent?"

(I think we've earned the right, yeah?)

The drive up the winding, cliff-side road to the beach was welcoming and familiar, and I relaxed at the scent of salty sea air.

Until, that is, I rounded the final bend and spotted the two cars in the driveway: one cherry red Maserati, one silver Dodge Charger.

Apparently I had company.

It was time for Plan B.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to DippedInVinegar (I like your username!), Esha Napoleon, and TheGirlOfTooManyFandoms for reviewing the last chapter. I'm glad you liked it, and don't forget to keep reviewing!**

 **A little something I forgot to mention last chapter: the story title comes from the song "Calls Me Home" by Shannon LaBrie – it's awesome, you should check it out.**

* * *

Bucky's POV

Clint and Tony were arguing.

This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, though, because the two caustic, sarcastic men were known to butt heads, no matter how much Taylor played peacekeeper when things got rough.

Which brings me to the subject of their _current_ argument: Iron Beta herself. Specifically, her sudden absence both in New York and here in Malibu, where they both had been _sure_ she'd run.

The problem had started around yesterday afternoon: just after lunch, Clint had tried to track down his girlfriend in hopes of getting her to a) eat, b) sleep, c) talk to someone, or maybe d) all of the above. If he was lucky. The problem arose when not only could he not find her in the lab, but when Jarvis didn't report seeing her anywhere in the Tower.

And so the Avengers assembled and immediately started discussing possibilities. Could she have been kidnapped?

No, Natasha reasoned, she'd been on a hair trigger ever since we got back from…well. Anyone who even _tried_ to touch her the wrong way would be without an important limb or two. Next.

Could she have been affected by magic?

Thor, our resident sorcery expert, said no, he hadn't found any traces of any magic whatsoever in the lab where she'd been working.

The next (and last) question had been the simplest one: could she have just…run away?

Yes, Clint and Tony had agreed, albeit for different reasons (Tony explained that she had some deep-rooted independence issues, Clint just shrugged and said he'd seen her do it before).

That begged a new question: where would she go? Tony said she'd go home, but that didn't narrow it down much: he owned, at last count, over 30 "homes" around the country. And if the Tower wasn't home, then where was?

Malibu, Tony had answered almost immediately.

And that made sense: the Malibu Mansion was to Taylor what Brooklyn had been to Steve and I; a place to be reminded of when things were simpler, better, and brighter, when you had more fun and less worries.

So we all boarded the Stark jet and set course to Malibu, California, and landed about three hours later.

It had been almost twelve hours since then, and Taylor was still nowhere to be found.

Hence our current situation: Clint and Tony arguing, Natasha and Bruce being the voices of reason, and Steve and I definitely _not_ staring at each other across the room—

My thoughts are (thankfully) interrupted by my phone chirping in my pocket.

I dig it out, frowning as I read the scrolling message on the screen:

… _ **alert – cabinet lock has been disarmed – alert – cabinet lock has been disarmed…**_

My frown deepens as I check the time stamp on the message – fifteen minutes ago.

The Cabinet, as we were fond of calling it, was a padlocked, extremely secure safe in the kitchen, within which was a few bottles of an enhanced, extremely potent alcohol that was specifically designed to get gods and super soldiers drunk.

It had been securely locked away soon after completion, so as to keep the normal humans on the team safe. The only people with the codes to unlock that cabinet were Steve and I, and if we were both in here, then how did it get disarmed?

Wait. We had two top-notch hackers on the team. Computer masterminds. Duh. But one of _them_ was still in the room, still arguing with Clint, and the other was MIA.

Or not. She was here, alright, and poking her nose into places where she knew it shouldn't be.

Damn her and her genetic alcoholism.

I stand up and slip out of the room, making sure to stay unseen as I make my way through the dark rooms of the mansion. "Jarvis, where is she?"

" _I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Sergeant."_

"Bull," I huff. "Jarvis, Emergency Override Code: Sergeant Snowflake, four-twenty-twenty-seven."

" _Override code accepted: Sgt. James B. Barnes. How can I be of service?"_

"Where is Taylor?" I ask again, knowing Jarvis couldn't refuse this time.

And he doesn't. _"Miss Stark appears to be in the north sunroom, Sergeant. Please follow the lights, sir."_

"Okay," I nod, watching the ceiling lights light up and then go to the left. I follow Jarvis' instruction for a few minutes before pushing open one last door and poking my head inside.

Taylor leaning against the outer glass wall, facing away from the door. The sad strings of a piano tune – Chopin, I thought – drifting from the many speakers in the room.

"Do you always listen to classical music when you're sad?" I ask, stepping into the room and shutting the door.

She shrugs and turns to face me, revealing a red plastic cup held tightly in her hands. "Only when I'm sad and trying to get drunk. Seems to be a family thing. Dad, he listens to Beethoven."

I nod and slowly approach her, checking for physical signs of intoxication and not really finding any – her cheeks were just dusted with pink, her pupils weren't truly dilated, and her eyes weren't glossy at all, only sharp and piercing.

"You know, you really shouldn't drink alone," I comment off-handedly, sinking into one of the overstuffed armchairs in the room.

"Well I wasn't exactly expecting company," she snarks back. "But if you're going to stay, you might as well pour yourself a drink." She nods to the bottle on a small side table, next to a few more cups.

I get up and do just as I was instructed, finding that she was drinking a liquor that was meant to mimic whiskey, just with a much higher alcohol content.

I shrug and pour myself about half a cup, sipping it leisurely as I sit back down, quietly watching Taylor stand at the glass, watching the California landscape beneath us, waiting for her to say something.

She does. She sighs and asks, "How're things topside?"

I shrug, even though she can't see me, and rattle off a report. "Tony and Loverboy are arguing again, mainly because they don't know you're here. Natasha's acting as a mediator, Thor and Bruce have wandered off again, and Steve just seems…uncomfortable."

She mutters something under her breath before turning around to lean back against the floor-to-ceiling windows. "And you?"

"Me? I'm here, drinking, with you."

She gives me a _'no, duh'_ look. "I _mean_ , how are you, Bucky?"

I consider this for a moment. "Okay, I guess. My…nightmare didn't get shown, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been."

She nods serenely and tosses the remainder of what's in her cup back like a shot, giving a humorless laugh. "I _wish_ my nightmare hadn't been shown, or that it'd been different. Maybe then Dad wouldn't hate me."

"He doesn't hate you."

"Really?" she asks dubiously, walking over to refill her cup. "Then why haven't I seen his face since I was in that chair?"

"The entire team has been avoiding each other, not just you two," I point out, taking a swig of my drink. "It isn't you, trust me."

"Still," she pushes. "If I had had a different nightmare, things would be different. Maybe if it was Obie, that'd be better…"

"And then we'd all be unable to take our frustrations out on a dead man," I counter. "It wouldn't have been better. But we have no way of knowing, so don't beat yourself up about it."

"I could've done _something_ ," she insists, curling her hands around her cup as she begins to pace back and forth in front of me.

"Don't fool yourself," I snort, and she pauses to glare at me. "Really, Taylor. You can't change your innermost fears, nor anyone else's, so stop trying to play God."

"I'm not trying to play God!" she screams, finally exploding, and I take a moment to thank whomever designed this house that the walls were all soundproofed. "But don't tell me I was helpless. I could've convinced myself that he wasn't scary, that it didn't bother me, that-"

"You didn't know," I cut in. "You didn't know what your fear was, remember? Unless you have nightmares of Tony and Stane often…"

"I don't!"

"Then you couldn't have known. The Mandarin said he was going to pull out our deepest, darkest secrets. Yours was just so secret that _you_ didn't know what it was."

"That's rich," she snorts into her cup, draining it once more. "Now I do know what it is…and so does _everyone else._ "

"Everyone else knows everyone else's nightmares too," I remind her, and the alcohol must be getting to her, because she just frowns. "The main problem is that this team of misfits absolutely sucks at communicating. It's been _days_ , and nobody's managed to talk to anyone else."

"We're stubborn bastards," Taylor muses. "And, y'know, Natasha. And me too."

I give a half-smile – yeah, someone was definitely getting whiskey-brain. It would definitely let her loosen up a bit, even if tomorrow morning – technically later today – would be absolute hell.

"Of course," I nod. "Now the hardest part is just getting over ourselves and getting over this. It isn't the end of the world, and we've survived three of _those._ "

She laughs a bit too loudly, and comes over to sit in the armchair next to mine, still giggling slightly.

I watch her, amused, until her head starts to droop, her eyelids flagging.

I pull out my phone and open up my recent texts, typing out a message. _Wanna come get your girl?_

The response comes almost immediately: _you found her? when? wtf barnes?!_

 _Just hurry up, she's drunk and passing out._

There's no reply, so I just tuck my phone back in my pocket, half watching Taylor mutter about her father and Stane, probably just talking to herself.

A soft, barely-audible-unless-you're-a-super-soldier knock at the door pulls me out of the chair. I open the door to find one worried, slightly tired-looking archer leaning against the doorframe. "Move, please."

I graciously step aside, and he moves past me and to Taylor's side like they were opposing sides of a magnet. He doesn't even attempt conversation, just scooping her up into a bridal carry as she continues to babble.

"'lin?" she murmurs, eyes closed against his chest, and Clint hums in response. "'Kay. S'good. M'tired."

"Drinking will do that to you," he suggests, maneuvering his way over to the door. "Thanks, Buck."

"No problem," I grin shakily – the liquor _was_ meant for super-soldiers, after all. "Don't let her throw up on you."

"Don' talk 'bout throwing up, please," Taylor requests quietly.

I give her a small smile, even though her eyes were closed, and wave Clint out the door.

They leave, and I'm left alone with a quiet room that smells like bitterness and whiskey, and a surprisingly heavy conversation floating in the air that I didn't think would fade right away.

I sigh one more time before heading for my own room – I needed my sleep tonight, because tomorrow morning was going to be hell on earth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to Esha Napoleon, DippedInVingegar, csilla (Guest), TheGirlOfTooManyFandoms, and RussianAssassin for reviewing the last chapter! Love your reviews, keep it coming!**

* * *

Taylor's POV

I've woken up in some odd places over the years. That's a given, when you're someone like me – globetrotting from an early age, then fighting battles all around the world(s), and getting kidnapped more often than I'd like.

And over the course of this last year, another reason got added to the list: I'd gone a little overboard the previous night, and was waking up with a pounding head and a rolling stomach.

So no, waking up in unfamiliar places was not a novel concept.

But I have to say, this one takes the cake in the "odd" category: I was pretty sure I was in my childhood bedroom, and my head felt like it was going to explode in T-minus right now.

I crack open one eye just a silver, pleased to find the lights dimmed, and try to focus on the glow-in-the-dark stars Dad and I had stuck on the ceiling when I was little. Although, I could've sworn there was only five, so why was I seeing ten?

"You're awake," a soft voice says from somewhere to my left, and I turn my head ever-so-slightly to focus on the blurry shape that sounded like Clint.

"What happened?" I ask – or at least, that's what I wanted to ask, but as soon as I open my mouth, my stomach lurches, sending me scrambling for the edge of the bed and leaning over to vomit into the trashcan I was assuming Clint had pushed over.

Once my stomach is empty and the dry heaves fade, I don't turn around to face my boyfriend just yet.

Now, don't get me wrong: I was not embarrassed by "tossing my chunks" in front of him. This wasn't the first time this had happened – no, that honor belonged to a mission in Boise about nine months into our relationship. We were fighting a monster that _literally_ tossed chunks at you – a purple, alien ooze – and one of said chunks somehow entered my mouth, which led to me keeled over on a rooftop while Hawkeye simultaneously rubbed my back and guarded it. And that wasn't even the last time something like that had happened, and the roles had been reversed several times as well.

But right now, I felt like hell had chewed me up and spit me back out: my head ached, my brain itself was probably throbbing, and the heaving had sucked every drop of energy I had.

"Can you sit up?" Clint asks, and I mumble something, not wanting to move my head. He takes this as an affirmative, slowly helping me into a sitting position and pulling me back against his chest as he sat behind me on the bed. "Other than 'like crap', how are you feeling?"

"My head hurts," I groan. "Advil?"

"Yeah, gimme a second." He moves around me and gets up, going into my bathroom and returning a moment later with a plastic bottle of pills and a glass of water. "Here you go."

I take the pills first, knocking back two and chasing them down with a gulp of water.

Advil was _magic._ My head already felt better, and the water calmed my stomach slightly.

"You are a god," I moan.

"I love it when you say it like that," he smirks, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Steve made eggs, and Natasha made a special Russian hangover cure."

"Will it kill me?" I ask, only half kidding.

"I don't think it will. Come on, Tasha's, like, the queen of vodka. Trust her to make a good hangover cure."

"Good point," I sigh, slowly pulling myself away from Clint and towards my closet. "Crap."

"What?"

"I don't know what clothes I have here," I explain with a grimace. "I haven't updated my dresser in a while."

"I've got extras," he offers and I nod, slipping on a pair of sunglasses before following him down the hall to the room where he was staying, grabbing an old SHIELD t-shirt and a pair of sweats from his dresser, locking the door, and begging to strip.

"You know, I love you in my clothes," Clint comments lazily from where he was lounging on the bed, watching me through his eyelashes, "but when can I get you out of them altogether?"

"Maybe later, you horndog," I tease, pulling the shirt over my head and tightening the drawstring on the pants. " _If_ Natasha's 'cure' doesn't kill me."

He gives me an exaggerated sigh but gets off the bed, covering my smile with a kiss. We walk out with our hands loosely intertwined, finally emerging into the rest of the house.

"There they are!" Natasha greets as we step into the kitchen. "Your eggs were getting cold, idiots."

I just shrug and plop down on a barstool, accepting my plate of eggs and a slightly green looking milkshake-type thing…at least, it was the consistency of a milkshake. I wasn't sure what it was, to be honest.

"Is this your cure?" I ask her dubiously. "What's…in it?"

"Doesn't matter." She waves me off. "You need to drink it, regardless."

"Why can't I just have coffee?" I whine, poking at the bendy straw that had been so graciously included. Natasha just glares at me in a way that feels oddly parental, so I just make a show of sighing and slowly moving the straw to my lips.

" _Ew_! Oh my god, Natasha, what the hell?!"

Pounding footsteps interrupt any reply she could've made. "I heard yelling," Steve explains hurriedly, after charging into the room. "What's going on? Good morning, Taylor."

"Morning, Steve," I reply, wiping off my mouth and glaring at Natasha. "Nothing's wrong. _Someone_ just tried to kill me with a Hangover Cure of Death."

Captain America looks at me, at Natasha, and then apparently decides he didn't want to know, because he just shakes his head and sits down with his own plate across from Bucky, leading to an awkward I'm-trying-really-hard-not-to-stare-at-you staring contest.

I watch them watch each other for a moment before turning around to glare at Natasha. "What is in this?"

"Oh, you know, just some asparagus, some ginger, banana, honey, and a little bit of pineapple juice."

I stare at her for a moment, blinking slowly. "That…sounds horrible."

"It's worked for me," she points out.

"You also never get hungover," Clint says with a small sigh, getting up to rummage through the cabinets, returning with a bottle of Gatorade and two Alka-Seltzer tablets. "It's an acquired taste, love."

I accept the bottle, popping in the two tablets and swirling them around to speed up the dissolving process. "Thanks. Sorry, Nat, but I just threw up, and would rather not repeat the experience so soon."

She just shrugs and goes to toss it in the sink, and I return to my lukewarm eggs and Gatorade.

The kitchen is fairly quiet for the next fifteen minutes – Bucky and Steve were still not-staring – until another set of footsteps sounds, a familiar figure in a business suit appears.

Dad and I awkwardly glance at each other, and my foot begins to bounce anxiously on the rung of the barstool before he clears his throat and holds out his phone. "It's Maria. For you."

I nod quickly, hopping off the stool and accepting the phone before making my way back down the hall and into my room.

I release a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding before raising the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

" _Hi there, Miss Stark."_

"Don't call me that," I respond automatically. "What's up?"

" _Well, first, I wanted to check and see how you were feeling. Tony told Phil, and you know how news travels."_

"I'm feeling better," I assure her. "How're things at HQ?"

" _Chaotic as always. That's why I'm calling, actually – I wanted to see if I could send some work over?"_

"Such as?"

" _Just some paperwork. There are 64 forms you should've signed while you were busy getting smashed."_

"You're no fun," I groan.

" _It's my job, you hired me."_

"I did, didn't I? Alright, send them over, I'll see what I can do."

" _Alright, thanks. And…feel better, would you? About everything. I've been down that road before, and it isn't a pretty one."_

"No, it's not," I sigh. "I've gotta go. Send Phil my best."

" _Will do, ma'am."_

"Don't call me that," I snap again, but only to empty air; the phone had gone black.

"Nobody at SHIELD knows how to hang up a phone politely," I grumble, flopping down onto the bed and grabbing a StarkPad and stylus off the small nightstand.

Duty called.

.

One hour later found me shifted onto the couch in the main living room, the house strangely silent: Natasha and Clint, who had been extremely reluctant to leave my side, were at a sushi place a few minutes away, hopefully working through everything Natasha's nightmare had hashed up. I had no doubts that they would end up duking things out, because that was how a good majority of the team did things.

Dad was in the lab, working on Bucky's Harley while the aforementioned soldier "supervised" (or really just made sure nothing blew up.) Bruce, last I checked, was on the phone with Betty, and Thor was in the gym, practicing something that involved Mjolnir and a bunch of ancient Nordic words I couldn't translate. Steve had retired to his room after breakfast, stating that there was a Dodgers vs. Rangers game on that he didn't want to miss.

Leaving me alone with only a mountain of paperwork and a headache that ranked a solid five on a scale of ten. Just as I was halfway through reading the second to last form, a voice sounds behind me.

"Taylor?"

I startle, the stylus sending a random line across the form, as I turn around to face Steve.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," he apologizes, making his way into the living room and sitting in an armchair. "How're you doing?"

I sigh, swiping a hand over the errant line to erase it. "It's not an issue. And my head still hurts, and I'm slightly achy still, but it could be worse."

"It sure could," he agrees. "After what you pulled last night? You could have gotten alcohol poisoning, or-"

"Spare the lecture, Spangles," I sigh, refocusing on the last section of the document. "I'm assuming Bucky told you, then."

He nods. "Why'd you do it?"

"Have you ever wanted to forget, Cap? Just pretend, if only for a moment, that your shitty life wasn't really happening?" I ask softly.

He doesn't answer right away, but when he does, "I wish."

I nod silently, skimming the last few lines of the document and signing my name with a flourish, sending it off to Jarvis, who would then send it back to Maria.

"So," I begin, propping my feet up on the coffee table, "speaking of Bucky, what's going on between you two?"

He looks up at me, confusion and hesitation flashing in his eyes. "I don't – there's nothing going on between us."

"Right," I scoff. "And I'm Miss America. You're telling me you two _didn't_ spend all of breakfast trying not to stare at each other?"

"i-" Steve clicks his jaw shut, then opens it again. "It doesn't matter right now. We need to focus on the mission. _Personal_ problems need to wait."

 _What mission?_ I want to ask him. _This isn't a mission! We're just a bunch of screw-ups that're trying to pretend like we aren't royally screwed up!_

But I don't get to say anything, because at that moment Natasha appears in the doorway.

She's adopted what I call her "work stance": tense shoulders, stiff back, keen eyes, and a carefully blank face.

"You need to come see this," she says. "It's about the Mandarin."


	4. Chapter 4

Take one medium-sized room, about fourteen feet square.

Add in eight stressed superheroes.

Drop in a truckload of awkward tension – or two. Or three.

Mix well. Duck and cover.

Yeah. _That's_ what Conference Room A was like at the moment – half the team wasn't talking to someone else on the team, and the other half was trying to reconnect everyone but didn't have a clue where to begin.

But we were the Avengers. The best of the best. We had a job to do, so we all crowded into one small conference room, around one holotable, and pretended like nothing was wrong, at least right now.

On the table, a few things were spread out: a map, a progress bar, and a running script of code, among others.

Bruce points to the map first. "Based on our flight data, I think I've triangulated where the Mandarin's base is… or, was, I suppose," he amends quietly, enlarging the map so that we could all see it. "Our flight data doesn't start registering coordinates until we hit Rochester, Nevada – a small town in northwestern Nevada."

"Desert country," Dad supplies. "And the strangest part is probably that Rochester itself isn't anything big – in fact, it's uninhabited, has been since the early 1950's."

"Fewer people means fewer witnesses," Natasha points out.

"And the fewer witnesses, the better," Clint adds.

"Right, but we weren't _in_ Rochester," Bruce argues. "That's just where our location started registering again."

"So there was some kind of signal jamming device on that jet," I deduce. "That doesn't quite give us much, does it? Because jamming devices are a dime a dozen if you know what you're doing."

"Apparently the people equipping this one did," Dad admits, and my thought process falters for a moment as I realize we're speaking to each other. I watch something pass over his face, but it's gone as soon as he clears his throat. "It was coded to jam all inbound and outbound vehicles up to one hundred miles in any direction."

"So take a one-hundred-mile radius around Rochester," I continue, catching onto his train of thought and tapping on the map a few times to place a dot on Rochester and draw a circle around it. "And our location for the Month From Hell is somewhere in there."

"That's still a lot of land," Clint comments from my left. "Not as much, obviously, but it's still the entire northwest corner of Nevada."

We all fall silent at that, silently wondering and contemplating and watching the map, knowing that somewhere within that circle was our own personal circle of hell.

"Okay," Steve says, breaking the silence. "We'll work on that. What else did you find?"

"A treasure trove," Dad says, a smug grin on his face. " _This_ little beauty is a gem," he smirks, holding up the thumb drive I'd snatched from the control room just before shutting down the Operating System.

I frown – he didn't sound very grateful. Usually, Dad was only too happy to give me credit where it was due, but not right now. Did the Mandarin change that, or-

"-screened it?" Bucky breaks into my thoughts.

"Of course," Dad scoffs. "I'm not stupid, Barnes. Anyways, it's got a few things – the code to an unfamiliar OS, for one. I've got a scan running for any similar code-" he tapped a monitor displaying a progress bar at 5%, "-so we might be able to find other bases."

I nod, silently focusing on the section of the table in front of me, accessing the drive and beginning to pick through the contents of the drive _I_ had recovered.

"Pictures," I announce suddenly, and pause as the room goes silent. I look up to see the entire room staring at me. "Sorry, was I interrupting? I found pictures… lots of pictures."

Clint comes to peer over my shoulder as I flick through the stack, brushing past pictures of logos, employee files, and other mundane items, and I'm about to flick away another photo but Dad stops me.

"Hold up," he orders. "Can you push that out here?"

I comply, flicking the picture into the center of the table, making it big enough for all of us to see. The picture is of a man, wearing large tortoiseshell glasses that were popular thirty-odd years ago. He's got intelligent blue eyes and long, shaggy blond hair. To me, he seems fairly normal, other than the fact that he was somehow affiliated with a group of terrorists.

My father, however, pales slightly. "Jarvis, run facial recognition software," he orders. Jarvis does as he's ordered, and a few seconds later, he chimes in, "Match found, sir."

Dad checks on something, then swears violently.

"What is it?" Steve asks curiously.

Dad closes his eyes and sighs, pinch the bridge of his nose as he replies. "I was right. This is one of the times I wanted to be wrong, but I was right."

He slides a photocopy of an ID card next to the picture. "This is Dr. Aldrich Killian, Founder and CEO of Advanced Idea Mechanics, or A.I.M., for short. I've met him before."

"At a gala, I'm assuming," I suggest, knowing how those went – you rubbed elbows with all kinds of powerful people, whether they were terrorists or saints in disguise.

He nods. "Yeah. It was…January, I think, of 1999." He gives me a calculating look. "About six months or so before Rebecca got pregnant with you."

I shudder at the mental images he had stirred up. "Please, go on."

"Right. So, I met Killian at a New Year's gala in '99. He approached me with an idea – he had multiple physical disabilities, and he was describing something extreme to fix what was wrong with him. I still don't remember what it was," he admits. "And I didn't find out back then, either. I said I would meet him on the roof and never showed up."

I take a deep breath, mentally adding revenge to my list of possible motives. "Why do they have his picture, though?"

Dad just shrugs and doesn't reply. Natasha, however, sits up and grabs the contents of the flash drive. She's looking through it for something, but I can't tell what.

"What is it?" Clint asks.

"Just a hunch," she says absently. "It'll take a while. You guys should take a break."

I glance at Steve, who just shrugs. "Well, if we have nothing else to do?" No one speaks up. "Oh…well then, dismissed, I suppose."

The room slowly empties, leaving me staring at Natasha as she hunches over whatever she was looking at. "Need any help?"

"No, I'm good," she assures me. "You should take a break from staring at computer screens. Go find someone to spar with."

"You sure?"

" _Go_."

"Going, going," I mutter under my breath as I leave the room. "Jeez, I can take a hint."

I decide to take the spy's advice. I quickly find my way to my room, wrinkling my nose against the scent of lemon-scented cleaning products – obviously, the cleaning crew had been through here. I quickly get changed into workout gear, immensely pleased to find that while it was a little tight, it still fit.

I wander my way into the gym – this one, unlike the one in New York, was about the size of a school gym, with a boxing ring/sparring mat it the middle and various equipment on the walls.

I find Bucky shadowboxing in the middle of the ring. "Hey _snezhinka_ ," I call. "Wanna spar?"

He gives me a skeptical look. "I've got eighty pounds and five inches on you. That might not be a good idea."

I shrug, using one of the ropes to hold myself up, pull up style. "As long as you don't mortally wound me, we should be alright."

He keeps up the odd look, but nods. "Okay. I'll go grab the stuff."

I slip between the ropes and move into the various stretches Bruce had taught me over the years, meant to loosen up my joints and stretch out my muscles. They were born out of one-too-many torn muscles, spasms, and cramps.

Bucky returns after a few minutes with two sets of MMA gloves, tossing the smaller ones to me before he went into his own stretches. Once he's done and I'm all strapped up, he joins me in the ring and immediately shifts into a defensive position.

I size him up for a moment longer before dropping into a more offensive position. We both nod respectfully, and then the fight is on.

We circle each other for a while, watching and waiting, until he sweeps a leg out, meaning to sweep my legs from under me. I jump over it and reach around to deliver a blow to the back of his neck, trying to unbalance him.

"Nice try." He smirks just before reaching low, grabbing my knee, and yanking up just enough to unbalance me.

I curl into a tight ball and perform a backward somersault Natasha would be proud of, bouncing off the ropes and lunging towards Bucky, hitting him hard, fast, and tackling him football style.

He hits the ground with a grunt, immediately flipping us over so I was pinned beneath him. I ball my right fist tightly and yank my wrist quickly out from under his flesh hand, reaching up to jab him just under his ribcage, where everything was nice and squishy and vulnerable.

He grunts and rolls off me, scrambling to his feet as soon as he's off me. I spring up to meet him, aiming a punch at his shoulder.

And he retaliates by simply wrapping his arms around my waist and lifting me effortlessly off the floor.

I will forever deny my undignified squeal as I find myself suddenly not on the ground, and I settle for cursing James B. Barnes, Esq., in every language I knew. And, thanks to the efforts of Clint, Natasha, and Bucky himself, I knew quite a lot.

"You _cheater_!" I howl, squirming in his grip. "You dirty, dirty cheater!"

"Well, I'd hope he isn't getting _too_ dirty," a new voice says. "That's my job."

I twist around to see Clint approaching, and before I can object, Bucky dumps me into my boyfriend's arms like some damsel in distress.

As perturbed as I was, it was probably a good thing; the sudden transition from fireman's carry to bridal carry had the blood rushing from where it had built up in my head, and I didn't think I could stand if I tried.

"Hate you, Buck," I mutter as soon as the dizzy feeling faces.

"Get in line," Bucky hollers, and I look over to see him climbing out of the ring and collecting his gym bag. "I still won."

"Go bother Steve, you moron."

"I think I will," he says with a cheeky grin, leaving the room with a spring in his step.

"When will they see it?" I sigh after he's gone, leaning into Clint's chest.

"I don't know. But, in their defense, it took me _three years_ to work up the courage to ask you out."

"It was worth it," I agree. "But I really hope it doesn't take them that long." I maneuver myself out of his hold, landing on the ground.

"Come on, we should probably go check on the others, make sure no one's blown anything up."

" _Fine_ ," Clint sighs dramatically, taking my hand and accompanying me out of the gym.

Needless to say, I was in much better spirits than I had been at the beginning of the day.

A little bit of detective work and a lot of hitting the shit out of your teammates did _wonders_ for the soul.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks to Darth Becky 726, Esha Napoleon, TheGirlOfTooManyFandoms, and Csilla (Guest) for reviewing the last chapter.**

 **And to those of you that celebrate Christmas, Merry (early) Christmas! To those of you that celebrate Hanukkah, Happy Hanukkah! To those that celebrate neither, happy random Saturday!**

* * *

It had been two days since our breakthrough on Dr. Killian. In that time, Dad and I had barely said one word to each other, in and out of team meetings. Steve and Bucky's situation hadn't gotten any clearer. Natasha hadn't been seen outside of the conference room, still caught up on her Killian hunch. In an emotional sense, things weren't really moving anywhere.

In a physical sense, however, things were looking up: my hangover was just now fading and my sparring match with Bucky only left me slightly sore, so Clint and I were taking advantage of the quiet Saturday morning to get some alone time, kind of like a late anniversary present.

Well, that's what we were hoping for, anyway. As luck would have it, my phone started ringing just as things started getting, er, heated.

I groan as I pull away from my boyfriend, who barely pauses before going back to what he was doing. "Can't you just not answer it?" he whines petulantly.

I twist around to peer at my phone, sighing once I spot the caller ID. "Can't," I grunt, gasping as he brushed over a sensitive spot just below my ribs. "It's Phil."

Clint sighs, and I shiver at the feel of warm breath hitting my neck. As much as I wanted to continue this, we both knew Phil wouldn't call unless something extremely important was happening in New York.

Once Clint's gotten off me and disappeared into the bathroom to cool down, I sit up, snatching my discarded shirt and pulling it on before answering the phone. "Hello?"

" _Hello, Miss Stark. Sorry to interrupt your vacation, but something's come up at the Tower that I think you should know about."_

"What is it? And how many times do I have to remind you not to call me by my title?"

" _Sorry, Taylor. And something's gone wrong with the network here – we had a power outage about fifteen minutes ago."_

I pause, his words sinking in. The Avengers' Tower had a _power outage._ How did something not connected to Manhattan's power grid lose power in the first place? "Did you check the reactor?"

" _I sent a team down immediately,"_ Dad's PA reassures me. _"It's alright. The internet rebooted itself immediately, and all unsaved data has been recovered."_

I feel a little of the tension leak from my shoulders – it was moments like these where I really enjoyed having an ex-SHIELD agent in the company. "Okay, that all sounds good. What's the problem?" I ask, slightly confused.

" _The main network hasn't come back up yet. The computers, elevators, doors, and lock systems have all been switched to their backup networks, but all autonomy has been lost. Most importantly, Jarvis isn't responding."_

I let out a litany of curses, running a hand through my already messed-up hair and making it worse. A cold shiver runs down my spine – Jarvis was down. Jarvis _never_ went down for longer than a few seconds, thanks to state-of-the-art reboot and emergency recovery programs. So if he still down, fifteen minutes after the power went out…

I suppress another shiver as I hop out of Clint's bed, beginning to pace. "Have you told Dad?"

" _I called him first, about five minutes after the outage. He said he'd talk to you about coming down here."_

I bite my cheek to refrain from telling him that we hadn't talked in days. " _I'm_ coming down there, whether he is or not. Do you think you'll be okay for a few hours? If not, relocate to Newark or Philadelphia, if you have to."

" _We'll be fine,"_ he reassures me. There's a lengthy pause, then some shuffling before Phil comes back on. _"I have to go. See you later."_

There's a _click_ has he hangs up abruptly, and I absently wonder if there's a SHIELD Academy course on how to completely avoid following the rules of phone etiquette.

Clint appears in the doorway to the bathroom, still shirtless and still dripping wet. "Everything okay?"

"No," I sigh. "Sounds like the Tower's been hacked, I think. I'm going to have to give you a rain check." Clint nods, but he still looks a bit disappointed. My heart twists, and I silently curse – not for the first time – that my busy lifestyle kept me from partaking in the simpler pleasures in life, like a quiet afternoon with my boyfriend.

I reach up, tugging him into a kiss that promised more to come. "I promise, love. You might have to buy me dinner first, though," I tease, even as the pit of anxiety in my stomach grows wider.

"Deal," he promises with another kiss before nudging me out the door. "Go save SI from evil wrongdoers."

I laugh and give him a mock salute. I head down the hall to my bedroom, making a beeline for my closet – business attire was the one kind that I knew for certain was up to date, given how often Dad and I had to be here for meetings. I pick out a navy-and-white pinstriped blouse with a navy blazer and pants, setting the outfit on the bed before heading for the bathroom.

I jump through a five-minute shower, wrapping my towel around myself as I approach the full-length mirror and taking out my shoebox-sized makeup kit.

I give my face a neck a once-over, noting the bags and dark spots under my eyes, the slight sheen of oil on my nose and cheeks, and a few other things that I would need to cover up. A tilt of my head reveals more of my neck, as well as the multiple purple-red marks that Clint had left earlier – they're matched by more on the other side of my neck, and I sigh.

I loved him, I really did, but now I had to apply mountains of concealer to my neck and hope like hell it didn't come off.

I shake my head and get to work, brushing on foundation and concealer before moving on to blush, eyeshadow, mascara, and tons of other things I usually have a makeup team for.

When I'm finished, you can't tell I was just recovering from the hangover of my life, nor that I'd been making out with my boyfriend half an hour ago.

I shuffle back to the bedroom, changing into the more formal clothes and nabbing a pair of navy flats with white stitching. By the time I walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, I looked every bit the part of a Fortune 100 Company Vice President.

"Looking sharp," Natasha comments with a nod upon seeing me. "Whose reputation are you going to smash today?"

"Whoever hacked SI New York," I return, leaning a hip against the counter. "I should be gone a few hours, make sure no one dies, alright?"

" _We_ should be gone for a few hours," Dad corrects, walking into the room in a light gray suit with a red and gold striped tie and polished dress shoes. "But yeah, make sure no one dies and the house is still standing when we return, Tasha."

I raise an eyebrow at the nickname but nod in agreement. "What he said." I turn to look at my father. "Did you call the jet or do I need to?"

"I've called it. I also call dibs on driving."

"If I pick the car," I counter.

He nods and grabs a StarkPad off the counter, shuffling off to presumably look into this whole thing in more detail.

"Do you need an escort?" Natasha asks from her barstool, peeling a grapefruit with a few expert flicks of a knife. "I'd be happy to grab the Quinjet."

"Nah," I scoff. "We're going into work on a _Saturday_ to do what we do best. We'll be fine."

"You can never be too safe," she warns, slicing her fruit. "But if you say no, then I trust you."

"Thanks, _Mom_ ," I mock just before Dad comes back into the room.

"The plane just landed at Van Nuys Airport. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," I sigh as I hurry to catch up with him, snatching a piece of Natasha's grapefruit as I pass by and ducking the swat she sends my way. We make our way down to the garage, and I spot a silver Maserati GranCabrio. "That one."

Dad nods, grabs the keys, and we climb into the car, pulling out into the Malibu sunshine.

One fifteen-minute drive later – in which almost all traffic laws were broken – the airport comes into view. Five minutes after that, we were seated on one of the Stark Industries jets and taking off for LaGuardia.

I sit down in one of the overstuffed armchairs, distracting myself from the fact that my dad was sitting _right there_ by grabbing one of the StarkPads and trying to answer a few emails from the frantic R&D techs and management directors. Everyone was blowing up about this – and I didn't blame them.

"How much longer?" I groan.

"Four hours and fifteen minutes, about," Dad replies from across the aisle. "How're you feeling, kiddo?"

"Worried," I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose to try and ward off a headache I could already feel forming. "Frustrated. Pissed off."

"Not scared?" he asks, his face unreadable.

"No. Like I told Nat, we're going into work on the weekend to fix a hack. We've got a combined IQ of almost 400. We'll be just fine."

A look of relief spreads over his face. "Oh. Okay, that's good."

A puzzle piece clicks in my brain. "Wait, you thought I was scared of _you_?" He doesn't respond, but I plow forward anyway. "Puh- _lease._ You're about as scary as a teddy bear. With a _nightlight,_ no less."

"But in the nightmare, I was some raging, abusive drunk," he protests.

"That was-" I stop suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on edge.

"What is it?" he asks, stunned by my abrupt stop in the middle of a sentence. "Taylor?"

"I thought I heard something," I explain slowly, all my senses going on high alert.

"It was probably just a bird," he suggests, but I shake my head, adamant.

"The last time I ignored a feeling like this, we got kidnapped." I quickly unclip my seatbelt and drop to my hands and knees, reaching under the seat and grabbing the SIG Sauer P226 that was stashed under there. I tuck it into the back of my waistband as Dad speaks up.

" _If_ there is a threat, what good will that do? We're on an airplane if you haven't noticed."

"I've noticed, trust me," I assure him. "But it'll do something."

"I don't…"

Whatever he was going to say next is covered up by the sound of a massive explosion, sending me flying backward. I slam into the side of the plane, and everything goes black for a few seconds before I come back to it.

The cabin of the plane was filled with smoke and heat; it felt like there was a vacuum pulling everything towards the back of the plane. When I look, I discover that there _isn't_ a back of the plane, meaning that it probably got ripped off in the explosion.

"Dad?" I call, coughing on smoke. I reach up and yank down the plane's oxygen masks that had deployed, tugging it over my face. "Dad?!"

"Here," a voice groans from where his seat had been, just across the aisle from mine.

I start to make my way towards it, but pause. If I crossed the aisle, where I had nothing to anchor myself to for a few seconds, I would more than likely join the debris that was currently being sucked from the plane as we dropped rapidly, making my stomach flip-flop.

"Dad, are you okay?" I call across the aisle.

There's the sound of coughing, then a familiar voice says, "Yeah, kiddo. 'M fine. You?"

"Okay, so far. And don't lie – you don't sound fine."

"I – um – I mighta broken a rib or two," he coughs. "S'nothing big."

"Like hell, it isn't," I snap. "Please don't make me come over there, I'd really rather not fall 3,000 feet."

"Oh, yeah, that reminds me – Jarvis, deploy!" The relieving sound of mechanical whirring sounds from a few feet away, and soon enough I can see blue light shining through the smoke.

"Don't suppose you brought a suit?" Iron Man asks, sounding a bit pained even through the synthesizer – broken ribs could _not_ be comfortable in the metal casing.

I shake my head. "But I'll be fine," I promise. "Go get the crew out."

"But-"

"Go! Please," I add on at the last moment, suddenly aware that I'd been ordering my father around.

I can't see his face, but the helmet nods and the suit is gone with a roar of the thrusters.

I wrap my arms around the back of my seat, my muscles straining to hold me in place against the sudden decompression inside the cabin. Along with that, my lungs were screaming their displeasure at the thin air up here – the oxygen masks _sucked._

Just as I think the strain is becoming too much, something comes flying in my direction – for a split second, I think it's Dad.

It isn't. It's a large piece of debris heading for me and fast; I duck just in time to avoid a head injury, but it slams into my right shoulder. I give a yelp of pain as my grip is reflexively ripped off the chair, and one hand – metal prosthetic or not – isn't enough to keep me glued to the chair, my only anchoring point.

I only have a millisecond to completely panic before I'm thrown out of the back of the plane, joining all the other debris in a freefall to Earth.

In that millisecond, only one name comes to mind: " _DAD!"_

My voice is ripped out of my chest by the wind roaring past me, and for a moment that seems like forever, it doesn't seem like he heard me.

He didn't hear me. I'm going to fall for the next two-thousand something feet, and then I'm going to hit the ground. It's going to hurt. And I'm going to die.

I'm going to-

…or not?

I spot the glinting sunlight hitting gold metal as an object races towards me, relief flooding me as I realize that it's my dad, and that I might not die today.

He swoops beneath me, catching me in mid-air and completely stopping my descent.

While I was relieved, that didn't mean that the impact didn't hurt like hell; if you take two objects, both traveling at tremendous speeds, you get a rough impact.

"Fucking _ow_ ," I groan once we reach breathable altitudes.

"You okay?" Dad asks worriedly.

"I don't think anything's broken," I offer. "Just bruised…all over. And maybe a sprained shoulder."

"Alright, I'm gonna land so I can get a better look at you, and we can radio for help," he decides.

I nod, spotting something over his shoulder and looking back just in time to see a massive fireball go up in the distance. I grimace at the sight of the plane, which I had just been on, going up in flames. "Did you get any of the crew out?" I ask quietly.

"No," he answers in the same tone. "The flight attendants were already gone, and the cockpit door was designed to be blast proof, soundproof, and locked."

I nod, silently mulling over the entire incident until we reach the ground and Dad sets me down before going to land. I immediately roll over, grimacing as my left arm almost buckles, before losing everything I'd eaten that day.

I groan again as I sit back on my heels, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. I look over to see Dad, de-suited and holding an arm to his midsection, probably to protect his ribs.

"I can't seem to get anyone on comms," he croaks. "I have cell service, but Jarvis isn't responding."

I blink. "He's not in the Tower, either. Do you think…?"

He shrugs, then winces. "Don't know. Right now, I _do_ know that we need help. Do you have your phone?"

I shake my head, glancing back in the direction of the fiery plane wreck. "It was in there."

Dad nods and hands his over – it's a bit banged up, but it still turns on. I raise an eyebrow at seeing his speed dial options: one was me, but two was _Natasha_ , of all people.

Natasha "Black Widow" Romanoff.

I push aside my disbelief and press the button, holding the phone to my ear.

" _Hey, Tony."_

"Hi, Nat," I croak. The adrenaline was wearing off, and I felt like I'd just swallowed gravel. "Listen, something happened…"

" _Taylor?"_ Her voice instantly becomes urgent. _"What's wrong? What happened?"_

"Our plane went down," I explain bluntly. "There was an explosion…bomb, I think. Don't know who. We need pick up. We're in a field…I don't know where."

" _On it,"_ she confirms, and I can hear her shouting for Clint to get the Quinjet ready for takeoff. _"How badly are you guys hurt?"_

"My shoulder hurts," I offer, even as more injuries make themselves apparent. "And my head. My chest. A bunch of other things. Don't think anything's broken, if it helps."

" _It does,"_ she assures me. _"Just hold on, Bruce is getting your coordinates now…got you. We'll be there in about three hours."_

"Alright," I nod, wincing as my shoulder throbs again. "Please hurry."

" _I'll do my best, vorobey,"_ she promises, and then the phone line does dead.

I hand the phone back, a sudden thought making me groan.

"What's up?" Dad asks, in full parental-panic-mode.

"Remind me _never_ to turn down an offer for an escort… _ever again_."


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to csilla (Guest), RussianAssassin, Esha Napoleon, and Darth Becky 726 for reviewing the last chapter.**

 **Sorry this is so incredibly late, but I was on winter break and school's started up again and life is hectic. And if anyone catches the movie reference, tell me!**

* * *

Despite her less-than-favorable history with authority, Natasha Romanoff could follow orders, and to the letter if necessary. So when I told her to hurry, she made the usually three-hour flight into a two-hour and fifteen minute one.

I climb up the ramp and into the Quinjet with a small smile, approaching Natasha as she climbs out of the cockpit. "Next time I advise an escort, take the damn escort, okay?"

I give a breathy laugh. "Trust me, I will."

"Where are you hurt?" Steve, who was in uniform with his shield on his back, asks.

"My shoulder might be sprained," I report, wincing as it throbs. "His ribs are broken," I add, flicking a thumb at my dad.

"I can't look at you both," Natasha sighs. "Alright…Taylor, sit down. You're easiest, so you're first – Tony, stay still. Steve, keep an eye out."

Steve snaps to, and I'm lead to one of the side benches. Natasha pulls out one of the massive first-aid kits that were always kept on board the jets. "I need to get a better look at that shoulder."

"I'm wearing a sports bra," I admit, waving her off as I begin to manipulate the buttons on my blouse. "It's fine."

Natasha nods and pulls the shirt off my left shoulder, and we both pause upon sight of the damage – my entire shoulder, from the joint to about mid-bicep, was a motley of black and purple bruising, the skin slightly swollen and very tender.

"You're right, it's most likely sprained," Natasha admits. "Hold still." She begins to apply muscle relaxing gel, slathering it on thickly before wrapping the shoulder in bandages. "Better?"

"Better," I agree, tugging my shirt back up over my shoulder. I give her a nod of thanks, and Natasha gives me a small smile before moving on to tend to my dad.

A few minutes later, Dad's ribs are strapped and a head wound I didn't know he had was bandaged. We gather in the middle of the plane to discuss where to go from here.

"We left Clint, Bucky, Bruce and Thor at the mansion," Natasha reports. "Defenses needed to be kept up because we didn't know what the hell was going on – first the Tower, then the plane; the mansion could be next."

"And Clint _stayed_?" I ask incredulously.

"Not willingly," Steve admits. "I almost had to knock him out. As it was, I had to order him back to his post."

I nod. "I'll call him when we're in the air. In fact, we should probably get them all on an uplink, while we decide what to do."

Natasha nods then stiffens her spine. "In other news, we have reason to believe that Killian, the terrorists, and the bomb that blew up the plane are all related." She grabs one of the nearby screens and pulls up a photo – a picture of a dead Beekeeper guard, lying bloodied and crumpled on the ground, still in that god-awful yellow uniform that had been so important to our escape.

I suppress a shudder at the sight. "Natasha?"

"Just wait," she orders, pressing a few buttons and zooming in on a small spot on the picture – a tag, I realize. The tag to the guard's uniform was sticking out of the back of his shirt.

I squint at the tiny, bloodstained scrap of fabric.

"Nat?" Dad prompts. She doesn't reply, just zooming in a bit further and the fiddling with the controls – cutting, shaping, and sharpening the image; wiping away the bloodstain until we're left with a stylized black bullseye, overlaid with three blurry letters.

"A…I…" Dad pauses, his jaw dropping. "Are you telling me what I think you are?"

"If you think I'm telling you that Advanced Idea Mechanics and the terrorists that captured us are probably one and the same, then yes," Natasha nods.

"Which would explain the lack of evidence," I muse. "Killian doesn't want his rep damaged by this."

Steve suddenly sits bolt upright. "Wait. If Killian is the head of A.I.M., and the Mandarin is the head of the terrorists, and A.I.M. _is_ the terrorists, then…"

My mouth suddenly goes dry. "Killian is the Mandarin." And therefore, he was responsible for every drop of the torture we'd gone through for the past month. Suddenly, Aldrich Killian was the name at the top of my mental blacklist, right next to Rebecca Santiago.

I cover my face with a hand as Steve takes charge, thankfully calm. "Okay. We'll look into that later. For now, we need to move. Natasha gets us in the air and headed to New York. Tony, see if you can contact the Tower. Taylor, help me set up the uplink."

"Aye, aye Cap'n," I reply, fully serious. Natasha disappears into the cockpit, and soon the jet's engines hum to life. Dad just grabs his cell and begins urgently pressing buttons.

The pictures of Killian's logo are quickly turned off, and I get to work in accessing the communication units in the jet that would link back to Malibu, and hopefully

It isn't an easy task, but I manage to get the link connected just as Natasha lifts off, and a few seconds later there's the telltale jolt of supersonic speed.

The video screen took up four of the glass-panel monitors: one for Bruce, one for Clint, one for Bucky, and one for Thor. Upon seeing us, they all try to speak at once.

" _Guys!"_

" _Shield brothers and sisters!"_

" _You have no idea-"_

" _Steve!"_

Steve placed two fingers in his mouth and gave an old-fashioned, Brooklyn-style cab whistle, and I watch Bucky smile on his screen. "Settle down!"

Once they're all quiet, I give Steve the floor, letting him explain the Mandarin connections and the situation at the Tower.

"So," he concludes, "the three of us – plus Falcon – will be leading at strike force to the Tower, while you four defend Malibu."

The burst of protest at this is, of course, expected. Bucky is the first to actually get his words heard. _"You're hunting_ terrorists _, Steve. If you think I'm just going to let your punk-ass-self jump into this head first without me, then you've got another thing coming."_

Steve rolls his eyes. "You can't babysit me, you jerk."

" _I can try."_

"You-"

"If you two are done flirting," Dad cuts in, "we all have places to be."

I snicker as Steve glares. "We aren't flirting."

" _Whatever you say, Cap,"_ Clint calls, and my snickers turn into full-blown laughter. _"But I agree with Bucky."_

I stuff my hands in my pockets. "Clint, I don't have a choice."

" _You're hurt; I can see it!"_ he argues. _"And you don't have the suit, do you?"_

"No, but I'm not bad with a bow and arrow, unless you've forgotten," I point out to the man that had taught me archery to begin with.

" _I know,"_ he sighs. _"It's just…"_

I spot the look on his face and quickly turn to the others. "One moment, please." Without waiting for a reply, I grab the screen and move it over to a corner. "What is it, love?"

" _I don't like being stuck here while you're out there,"_ Clint admits. _"I'm useless and I hate it."_

"You are _not_ useless," I argue vehemently. "You're needed at home."

" _But I want to be there."_

"I'll be alright," I promise. "I hurt my bow arm, not my draw arm, so I can still shoot. And I may not need to – we don't actually know if there are any hostiles at the Tower, Steve's just being a paranoid bastard."

"I heard that!" Steve hollers.

"I know!" I turn back to Clint with a grin. "Seriously, I'll be fine. We'll go in, out, and be back by dinner. You cooking tonight?"

" _Sure,"_ he shrugs, then smirks. _"You still owe me that raincheck, by the way."_

"I haven't forgotten, just gotten my priorities straight," I quip, looking up as Steve makes a hand signal. "Speaking of, I need to go. Touchdown is in 30."

Clint nods on screen. _"Got it. Take no prisoners, Beta."_

"Same to you, Hawkeye," I say just before turning off the monitor and walking back to my seat. Someone had set out a tac vest and my bow case, and I strap the vest on over my shirt before sitting down to pick apart my bow case.

First out is my quiver, which I quickly inventory before strapping it on. I was carrying some of my more experimental arrows; able to do things like cut glass, spew mustard gas, and even a few that were basically miniature missiles. I didn't think I'd have to use any of them, but I could never be too safe.

Next out of the case is my bow, a curved masterpiece of gleaming black metal with a pearly white spider web-type pattern decorating the limbs. It gets curled into a four-inch-wide circle and clipped to my lower back.

Two gun holsters go on my thighs and my archery arm braces get strapped on. A comm unit slides into my ear. The entire outfit topped off with a pair of HUD sunglasses.

Steve's voice crackles over the comm line. _"Comm check. Do you copy?"_

I press a finger to my ear. "Iron Beta, I copy."

 _"Black Widow, I copy."_

 _"Iron Man, I copy."_

 _"We're all here, then,"_ Cap announces. _"Alright, guys, we're going to land on the roof of the Tower in fifteen. I'll call Falcon in. Beta, you and Widow go in first and clear the Tower, floor by floor. I'll be bringing up the rear. Iron Man, assist Falcon with aerial support."_

Everyone agrees to the plan, and I settle down to wait, jiggling my foot up and down nervously.

Just as Steve looked ready to throttle me out of annoyance, the Tower comes into view and Natasha quickly and quietly sets us down on the roof. Dad zooms out first, taking to the skies. I wait patiently as Natasha checks her guns, Widow Bites, and electric batons before making my way off the plane, every sense on alert. Cap is last off the plane, and as the ramp closes the mirrors flip into place, effectively making the plane disappear.

Another figure lands on the roof, and I notch and aim an arrow before recognizing Lt. Sam Wilson, aka Falcon. "Guys, our backup has arrived."

 _"Falcon, do you copy?"_ Cap's voice asks.

 _"I hear you, Cap,_ " he replies. _"Good to see you guys."_

 _"Enough with the chit-chat, boys and girls,"_ Natasha interrupts. _"Wilson, go assist To - Stark. Beta, Cap, we need to get off this roof ASAP."_

I nod and make my way over to the roof access stairwell, making quick work of the lock and throwing the down open. I edge down the stairs slowly, bow first, feeling more than hearing Natasha behind me.

We emerge on the 100th floor to find in dark and silent, both rarities in Avenger's Tower. Natasha and I split the floor in half and set about making sure it was clear, albeit glowing eerie green thanks to the night vision in my sunglasses.

Everything is quiet, so I rejoin Natasha in the center room. "Jarvis?" I ask quietly, looking up at the ceiling.

No response. Jarvis was programmed to respond ten seconds after the end of a prompt, and that was stretching it. It had been twice that, and there was nothing. I turn to Natasha and shake my head. "He's still down."

"Not good?"

"A bit not good, yes," I sigh, adjusting my bow slightly and heading for the stairwell.

We fall into an easy pattern after that: clear the stairwell, clear the floor, I check for Jarvis, I get no response. Floors ninety-nine through five bare no sign of terrorists, hackers, or aliens of any kind; just darkness, more darkness, and silence.

About an hour and a half after we entered the Tower, Natasha and I were standing in a pitch black stairwell staring at the door to floor number four, where I suspected Coulson had kept everyone contained. That was the good news. The _problem_ lay in that this particular door needed a pass key to open, and I had no idea which codes were working, or what those codes were.

"Should you shock it open, or should I?" Natasha's voice asks from behind me.

I consider this for a moment before deciding, "Both. If you Widow Bite it, and I use this new Taser arrow, we should fry the lock in a few seconds at most."

Natasha doesn't reply, instead stepping up next to me as I replace the normal arrow on my bow with a super-powered Taser-like one, meant explicitly to fry things using massive quantities of electricity.

I step up at step or two and take aim, my glasses automatically adjusting to focus on my intended target. "On my mark. Ready…" I take a deep breath and trail off, mentally counting down from five to one before I release both the breath and the arrow, letting it fly through the darkness as Natasha's Widow Bites crackle to life.

They hit the lock at the same time, the electricity eagerly crawling into the lock and through the metal door, and I take a moment to hope that no one was in contact with it on the other side. Coulson had probably herded everyone away from the doors per agent training, I mused.

The electricity eventually fizzles out, plunging the stairwell into darkness once more.

I cough at the smell of ozone that was heavy in the air. "I wonder how much this door cost."

"I have no clue," Natasha shrugs, striding forward to kick open the door. The charred, basically non-existent lock gave no resistance, and the door swings open to reveal a brightly lit room full of people dressed to the nines.

I wince against the sudden light, turning off the night vision on my glasses and cautiously stepping into the room.

"Sesuai!" Nat barks – I recognized Indonesian, but the word(s).

A figure moves to the front of the amassing crowd – a bland face you could lose in a crowd, but also one that I could recognize anywhere. "Agent!"

"Natasha, Taylor," he greets with a nod and a handshake each. "Good to see you?"

I slip off my glasses and tuck them into a pocket. "We good?" I ask, glancing around at the assembled bigwigs – I recognized a fair amount of them, but one could never be too sure.

"We're all good," Phil assures me. "I've vetted everyone in the Tower. Taylor, you need to see something."

I nod. "Sure. Nat gets the sit-rep; I play with the toys."

"That's the way it usually works," Nat quips from behind me. I roll my eyes and follow the ex-SHIELD handler to his office, where everything was as pristine as usually and his monitor was dark. Coulson taps the 'Enter' key on his keyboard. "Take a look."

I slide into his desk chair and take a look at the screen.

It was completely black, except for two lines of green letters:

HELLO, MISS STARK. WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY A GAME?

PLEASE ENTER YOUR ADMIN ACCESS CODE TO BEGIN.

I look up at Phil, eyebrow raised. "This is it?"

He nods. "It's not hackable, untraceable, and uses a cryptographic key I haven't seen before. This is it."

My eyebrow stays raised but I nod, turning back to the computer and entering the 8-digit code that would allow me access to all of SI's servers.

The monitor simply goes completely black - as does the one net to it and, judging by the sounds coming from around the floor, every other computer on this floor, at the very least.

All that's left is an image of the black and yellow A.I.M. logo and one word.

CHECKMATE.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi! I'm not dead, I promise. I've just been distracted by a few things – other fandoms, school, a thing called 'real life'.**

 **Yeah, it sucks. But here's the latest chapter – it's a bit longer than usual to make up for my absence.**

 **Thanks to candycrum, Darth Becky 726, Csilla (Guest) and Esha Napoleon for reviewing the last chapter.**

* * *

Malibu Mansion was in chaos.

Granted, it was in chaos 99% of the time, given that it _was_ home to a bunch of chaotic superheroes at the moment, but still, you'd think that after the revelation we'd just undergone, it would be less chaotic than usual.

And you'd be wrong.

Thanks to the…events at SI New York (okay, fine, maybe I screwed up, but did I have a choice? No.) the Avengers had kicked into high gear; we had pulled in everyone we could (Rhodey was busy doing burn-before-reading classified stuff somewhere). Even Coulson, for god's sake! He had gladly slipped out of "Personal Assistant" mode and into "Agent of mother _frickin'_ SHIELD" mode, but his very recruitment – after I promised four years ago to not call him in anymore – should stand to how desperate we were.

And the absolute _worst_ part? I couldn't lift a finger to help. After Nat, Steve, Sam, Dad, and I returned home and endured obligatory poking and prodding from Bruce, my shoulder was officially diagnosed as sprained and I was wrestled into a light sling, which I would have to wear for the next month or so.

And even worse, Clint had been appointed – or probably appointed himself – to Taylor-watching duty, so there was no way for me to get out of this.

Not that I _minded_ spending time with my boyfriend; don't get me wrong. It's just that there's only so many times you can play Fruit Ninja with someone before you go insane.

"Taylor?" I look up from slicing a watermelon to see my dad standing a few feet away. "Can I borrow you for a second?"

"Sure," I agree with no hesitation whatsoever, scrambling out of my chair to follow him out of the room. "Oh my god, _thank you_."

"Well, I'm not quite a god, that'd be Thor," Dad jokes. "But you're welcome. Figured you needed a break, and I wanted to show you something."

I perk up – he probably had some new tech to show me, which would be a welcome break. "What is it?"

"You'll see," he replies coyly.

I _harrumph_ at him, poking him in the side a moment later. "Are we there yet?"

"No," he sighs.

"Are there yet?" I ask again, fighting a grin.

He side-eyes me. "No."

"Are we there yet?" I ask again, my lips slowly curling into an obnoxious grin.

"No." He rolls his eyes and throws an arm over my shoulders. "Are you two or twenty-two?"

"Somewhere in between," I quip as we reach a set of double doors that looked tough enough to hold back a tank. I give them a careful look. "Are we there _now_?"

"Yep." Dad nods and presses his hand to a biometric scanner near the door, then motioning for me to do the same. Once I do, the doors slide open to reveal a large, circular space with glass cases on the walls, each holding an early version of the Iron Man suit.

"Oh," I hum, scanning my surroundings. "Elysium."

"Yeah," Dad agrees. "What, you didn't realize that the entire way here? You've been here before."

"Not very often," I argue, "and I just call the suits."

"Alright, whatever," Dad says, holding his hands up in surrender. "But to get back on topic…"

"What did you want to show me?" I ask curiously.

"Well, it's more of a 'tell you' and _then_ 'show you,'" he explains slowly. "What do you say to working on a project with me? Just the two of us, like we used to."

I bite my lip. As intriguing and inviting as the offer sounded, I wasn't sure I should or could. "Is this really the best time for that?"

"I promise it's related to the current situation."

I nod, rocking back on my heels. "Okay, sounds good. What are we working on?"

"Jarvis."

I immediately begin choking on my own saliva. Once I've regained a bit of my composure, I whirl around to stare at my dad. "I'm sorry, did you just say-?!"

"Jarvis," he repeats calmly. "You know, the AI that's gone MIA?"

"Yeah…but you _never_ let me work on Jarvis!" I protest.

"No, I don't let little kids work on Jarvis," he corrects, "no matter how brilliant they may be. I didn't want you to be responsible for creating HAL 2.0."

I consider this for a moment before nodding – I had to admit that putting a child or teenager in front of a system like Jarvis could have devastating consequences.

"But why now?" I question.

"Well…you're twenty-two, neither a child nor a teenager; you're a brilliant programmer, one of the world's best, if not _the_ best; and let's face it, one of these days you're going to need to take over just about everything. You need to know how things work."

"Sure, stroke my ego a little more," I tell him, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And you're not dead yet."

"Do you want to work on Jarvis or not?" he asks exasperatedly.

"Yes," I answer instantly. "Of course."

"I figured," he nods, turning back to the control panel he'd been messing with before. "You may want to stand back."

I take a few big steps backwards, my eyes widening as the floor begins to split open. Sections of the floor spin away, retracting until there's a hole about ten feet wide in front of us.

My jaw drops slightly as I make my way to the very edge of the hole, my toes hanging off the edge slightly as I peer down into the hole. "You weren't kidding when you named this place 'Heaven.'"

Behind me, I hear my dad hum in agreement before warning, "Be careful, that's a deep drop with no safety lines. If you wouldn't mind taking a step back, Miss Daredevil…"

I roll my eyes but take a step back anyways before looking back down. Below me, there were thousands – well, it _seemed_ like thousands – of lights. The ones on top were circular, but father down they were triangular, like…

 _Oh._

I glance down at the reactor sitting in my chest, over to the Mark III, and then back down into the hole. These were suits, and judging by the number of lights, _every single suit._

"Holy _shit._ "

Dad just rolls his eyes, a nonverbal way of telling me to watch my language because I was too old to be reprimanded out loud. "Nice, isn't it?"

"I restate my case: you named this place 'Heaven.'"

"I love my genius," he says with a cocky smirk.

I flick my eyes upwards, breathing out through my nose. "I know that. If you've just kidnapped me to boost your own ego…"

He doesn't reply, instead pushing a button on his tablet. A loud _whoosh_ sounds from below us, easily recognized as thrusters, before two suits come into view.

By now, I was used to the grandeur the suits present, but these still took my breath away. There were two – the right was slightly smaller and leaner than the left, but they were otherwise similar. But compared to the red and gold or black and purple, these were like negative exposure: painted a crisp blue and white.

They were mainly a clean white, the chest plates gleaming in the light. The detailing on the joints and the sides of the helmet was the same shade of blue of the reactors.

"Meet Mark 30 and 30-B," Dad announces. "Otherwise known as Seal and Seal Pup."

"Why are they called that?" I ask, studiously ignoring the fact that I _always_ got stuck with the baby animal names. _Always._

"You'll see," Dad replies cryptically. "Shall we?"

"Can we?" I retort, waving one hand towards my sling.

"Eh," he side-eyes me, unconcerned. "The suit should support it. We shouldn't be going into combat."

I give him a long look, but decide that Dad wouldn't be letting me go if he wasn't sure. "Alright."

"Good!" He grins and picks up a wrench. "Let's get dressed, shall we?"

"You're horrible," I snort, grabbing my undersuit from where I had it stored in a locker and head for the bathroom, unfastening the sling along the way.

Once I managed to stuff myself into the not-spandex, I return to the main floor to see Dad about three-quarters of the way done. I grab my own socket wrench and begin dismantling the smaller suit, sitting down and getting to work.

I've got an entire leg on before I look up. "This is probably a bit too late, but _where_ are we going?"

"17.75 ° N, 144 ° E," Dad replies, not looking up from his work.

"Longitude and latitude," I sigh. For a moment, I try to calculate that in my head, giving up once it becomes apparent that I was an engineering major, not a geography one. "Whatever. Lemme just…" I reach for the wrench again.

It takes about another half hour to get most of my suit on, then help Dad with his suit, then for us to help each other with the back pieces.

"You seriously need to upgrade every single suit you own," I tell the HUD. "Because manual labor? _So_ last century."

"Noted," Iron Man replies dryly. "But it works just fine. How's the shoulder?"

I lift the bruised tissue up and then set it down, assisted by the servos in the suit. "It's alright." I smirk, looking down at where Dad's face was showing in the HUD. "You lead the way."

He nods and lifts off, and I take a deep breath before activating the thrusters and following.

.

I am _damn_ lucky I actually know how to fly the suit.

Jarvis is all fine and dandy, and actually extremely helpful. But as great as he was, when I was a little baby superhero, I would spend hours in the suit, learning the ins and outs of flying, something which I'd never done before and now had to be really good at in order to not die.

And so now? When Jarvis was MIA? I could still fly. Sure, it was simple and lacked maneuvers of any sort, but it was flight. And I was fine.

Well, mostly fine. It had been _seven hours_ of this, and we were currently cruising over the middle of the Pacific Ocean and everything, everywhere was sore.

"Have you brought me out here to kill me?" I ask, activating the comm line.

" _That wasn't generally on my schedule today_ ," Dad deadpans. _"Let me check and see_."

"If it's not that, then I can only conclude that you've finally lost it and dragged me out here for no reason," I continue. "In that case, I'm calling Natasha to come and get you while and then the funny farm."

"Tasha is used to my madness by now," he comments, unconcerned.

I perk up. "She's 'Tasha' now?"

He doesn't respond to that, instead slowing down and decreasing altitude. "We're here."

"And we _will_ be talking about that later," I vow, following him. "Uh, where are we?"

"Dive."

"What?!" I squawk, internally wonder where the nearest mental hospital.

" _Dive_ ," Dad repeats, more forcefully this time.

I pause, because Dad wouldn't hurt me, no matter how stupid the idea, he wouldn't hurt me-

I dive.

There's a split second of complete and utter panic, because I'm in a metal suit that weighs about 200 pounds, and that sinks. And the reactor's uncovered, that's bad, what if water gets in there and I die and _holyfuckingshitshitSHIT—_

Wait.

Wait, wait, _wait._

I'm not sinking. And…alive.

I slowly open my eyes to find an expanse of blue stretched out before me, tinted by the HUD. Something nudged my leg, and I look down to see a fish swim by.

"Um." I look up at Dad, who was still a few feet away. "How-"

"Propellers," he explains, turning around so I could see the two small propellers sticking out of the bottom of the back of the suit, pointing downward. There were also two jets on the back, currently shooting out pressurized streams of water that was probably recycled from the surrounding ocean.

One final piece clicks into place: earlier, Dad hadn't said seal, as in the animal. He'd said SEAL, as in _Navy_ SEAL. Sea, Air, and Land.

"You built underwater suits," I breathe with a laugh. "You – you _actually_ did."

"Is that doubt I hear in your voice?" he teases, diving deeper still.

"'Course not," I grin as I follow him. We fly - swim? propel? - for a few more minutes, at least, before I slow down and peer into the dark water ahead of us. We were at depth where the water was as black as a moonless night, and there was no way of telling which way was up.

"I can't see a thing," I mutter, fumbling for the external light switch. I flick the lights on, and they reveal a concrete wall a few feet in front of me, branded with big, bold letters spelling out "STARK INDUSTRIES."

Inside the helmet, my eyes widen. I sweep the lights side to side, revealing that this was no wall; it was a building, low and flat and made entirely of concrete.

I turn to Dad, the lights reflecting off the white suit in almost an angelic manner. "How did I not know we had a location here?"

"It's need-to-know, and you didn't," he replies flatly, diving down again and leaving me no choice but to follow.

He pauses in front of a glass panel and motions for me to stop. "This may hurt."

I whip my head up. " _What_ may-"

I'm cut off by a massive rushing sound, a bit like a washing machine. The world spins as the suit is tossed and tumbled like it weighed nothing, the view through the HUD becoming blurred.

Until it all stops with me being thrown into something hard, not only headfirst but with my injured shoulder hitting first.

I must've blacked out for a few seconds there, because when my eyes open again, I'm staring at a white ceiling with no water in sight.

"Did I die?" I ask, flipping the faceplate up.

"I'd hope not," Dad's voice says somewhere off to the side, and I look over to see him leaning against a wall, completely de-suited and with a tumbler in his hand.

"Do you keep booze everywhere you visit?" I ask, grunting as I scrabble for the emergency releases.

"Well, this is ice tea, so no." Dad sets the glass down and helps me with the suit, then helping me to my feet. "Your shoulder?"

"Alright," I say with a half-shrug, accepting the sweatshirt and pants Dad hands me from somewhere. I'm assuming they're his, given that I have to roll up the pant legs and the sleeves and pull the drawstring as tight as it'll go, and the sweatshirt goes until about mid-thigh, but I don't mind. It fulfills the daddy's girl hiding inside me, I guess.

I'll deny that if asked.

Shaking myself from my rambling thoughts, I take a look around. Dad and I are standing in a spartanly furnished room, almost empty except for a bar counter along the left wall and the suit ports on the right. Behind me, there was a massive Plexiglas panel, and beyond that, the Pacific Ocean in all its glory. On the opposite wall, there was only one feature: a gigantic steel door with locks and bars and two keypads, a biometric scanner, a retinal scanner, and a vault-style handle.

"Damn," I whistle lowly. "Are you competing with SHIELD to see who can come up with the most impenetrable fortress?"

"Mine is better," Dad boasts. "In case you haven't noticed, we're _underwater_."

"How deep?"

"10,944 meters, or just about 36,000 feet," Dad reports without hesitation, as if this information was on the top off his head.

I give the wall a surreptitious glance, just to make sure they weren't caving in under the pressure down here, before taking a deep breath and straightening my back. "What do I need to do?"

"Atta girl," Dad praises with an easy grin. "Come over here."

I walk over and watch as he puts in a numeric code, then a palm scan and an eye scan, and another code before stepping back and making me do the same.

"Paranoid, much?" I quip as the locks disengage with metallic _clicks_.

He shrugs. "I'd do the same for you. Same principle, really."

I am extremely confused by that statement, but I shuffle behind Dad as he hauls open the Hulk-like door, leading me down a short hallway to an anticlimactic office door that unlocks with one simple deadbolt.

But _then_ I step into the geek equivalent of Nirvana.

Down a few steps, there was a big half-circle bank of computers, with ample counter space and monitors. Beyond that, there were sever stacks – _so many server stacks._ As tall as the ceiling and as wide as the room (which wasn't small – it was about the size of the 'shop back in Malibu) and as far as I could see.

"Welcome," Dad says, his voice echoing in the eerily quiet room, "to the heart and soul of Jarvis."

I feel my jaw hit the floor. Jarvis was one of the most, if not _the_ most, advanced AI in the world. He reached heights that humans couldn't comprehend. He was Skynet, except better.

And I was standing in his brain. Not a localized copy, not a backup, but the core.

"Ready to get to work?" Dad asks from my left.

I just grin, roll up my sleeves, and take a seat.

"Let's do this thing."


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks to Esha Napoleon, CSILLA (Guest), and candycrum for reviewing the last chapter. Enjoy!**

Time had passed. I knew that much.

How much time, I didn't know. My phone had been shut off to reduce interference with Jarvis' servers.

 _Clint is probably freaking out,_ I muse through the fog that had recently settled over my brain. I had been working for what felt like forever, only getting up to use the bathroom and walk around once my limbs became numb. Food, water, and coffee were stored under the desks. I had a waffle pattern on the right side of my face from where I'd fallen asleep on the keyboard.

I arch my back and let out a moan of pleasure as my spine pops before flopping bonelessly into my chair, rolling backwards until I hit the counter. "Dad?"

On the other end of the semicircle, Dad mumbles something incoherent.

"Come on, take a break," I yawn, snagging a bag of chips from beneath my workstation and flinging it at his head.

Of course Dad protests. "But we still need to initialize the voice-"

"It can wait," I assure him, cracking open a water bottle and downing half of it in one swig. "As your Vice President, I strongly advise you to take a leave of absence, Mr. Stark."

"Fine," he grumbles, rolling his chair backwards and opening the chips as he turns to face me. "You okay?"

I nod, biting my lip as I gave my dad a calculating look.

"What?" Dad asks. "What's on your mind?"

"What do you think about Natasha?" I ask him bluntly.

"Ta – Natasha?" He slowly blinks. "I – she's my teammate. And a friend. I like her just fine…why do you ask?"

"Weeeelll…" I draw out the word, kicking my chair in lazy circles. "You keep calling her 'Tasha', she's your number two speed dial – just behind me – and earlier you said she was 'used to your madness by now.'"

"She's just my friend," he explains dismissively. "Like…like Bruce is. Or like you and Clint were."

"That's not the most reliable analogy, given that Clint's my _boyfriend_ ," I remind him with a half-smile, which then thins into a line as I search his face for…something. "Am I reading too deeply into this? I mean, you'd be friends, sure – it's been _eight years_. Bucky's practically my brother…is _that_ what this is? Oh, damn it all. Damn it, damn it, _damn it_. I'm an idiot. I mean, I was just thinking about how Nat would be the coolest step-mom _ever_ , because you and her together would be _great_. She's practically my mom already-"

"Taylor!" Dad yells, and my jaw closes with a sharp _click_.

"Breathe," he advises, and I take a few deep breaths as he continues. "First of all, you don't need to worry about my love life. That's weird."

I fix my eyes on a point straight ahead, ignoring how my cheeks were heating up.

"Secondly," Dad continues, "you're not – Nat and I aren't…" he sighs. "We aren't dating, but I don't think we're just friends, to be perfectly honest."

I nod slowly, feeling that if I spoke, it would break whatever roll he was on.

"We're in the relationship equivalent of the DMZ, I think," Dad says with a wry grin. "She's not ready for a relationship because of…well, everything, really, that the Soviets did to her. _I'm_ okay, as far as heartbreak goes – I'll never forget your mother-" Here he pauses to take a deep breath and push the incredibly sad expression off his face, "-but Rebecca Santiago, as I knew her, doesn't exist. Hasn't existed since...god, I don't know."

He rubs a hand over his face. "So. Yes. Maybe Natasha is what I need to move on. She's got everything I lo- _liked_ about your mother: she's smart, witty, and brave. But she doesn't need protecting. Hell, I'm pretty sure that if I even tried to sideline her, she'd castrate me with the oldest, rustiest knife she has."

This gets a soft chuckle out of me, mainly because he was 100% correct. "You sound like a fourth-grader with a crush."

"And you'd know _all_ about that, wouldn't you?" he retorts, making me blush again.

"I was fifteen, okay?" I exclaim. "Give a girl a break. And it all worked out, anyways. But we were talking about you and Natasha."

"There isn't a 'me and Natasha.'"

"Do you want there to be?" I ask carefully, using every bit of social tact I had – which wasn't a lot.

"What if I did?"

"I'd become Cupid like _that_ ," I answer with a snap of my fingers and no hesitation whatsoever. "Gimme a month or so, and you'd have a shiny new girlfriend."

Dad stares at me for a long moment before smirking. "Eager, much?"

"Only on your behalf," I reply with a perfectly innocent smile.

"Sure," he deadpans. "Don't push it, kid." The _don't screw this up for me_ is unsaid but heard nonetheless.

"I won't," I promise, turning back to the computer and waking it up. "Hey Dad?"

"Yes?" Dad sighs.

"Why Natasha?" I ask quietly. "Out of all the fish in the sea, why the one that can slice you to pieces?"

He's quiet for a moment before speaking again. "I think it's for the same reason you love Clint."

I raise an eyebrow. He'd have to be more specific - I loved my boyfriend for a lot of reasons: his sense of humor, his personality, his hair, his eyes, his abs, his butt, his-

"Don't give me that look," Dad scoffs without turning around, and I huff as he continues. "I meant the one where you don't have shield him from anything. He's seen the worst of you."

I nod, thinking about the nightmares and the scars and The 39th Birthday Party That Shall Never Be Mentioned (featuring Natalie Rushman from the Leagal Department).

"It does help, doesn't it?" I ask rhetorically, with a slightly sardonic smile. "Doesn't mean we don't worry, though."

"That it does not," he sighs. "I worry about you, Natasha worries about me (and vice-versa) you worry about Birdy, he worries about you...and _we_ need to worry about Jarvis, right now. Break's over, chop-chop."

"Right." I click to open the code interface. "So we still need to do the interfacing commands…"

.

"Owwww."

"Yeah."

"O _wwww_."

"Yeah," Dad repeats, as we slowly get into the aqua-suits, fumbling the smooth metal because my fingers are cramped like they've never been before, I have a headache coming on behind my eyes, and I was so stiff I could barely walk, which is why we were flying back to the mansion. People were undoubtedly freaking out.

Dad and I let ourselves be sucked out of the compound with a swell of seawater, pushing ourselves up and up and up as the water gets lighter and lighter until we break the surface with twin splashes.

I wait a moment for the HUD to switch from water mode back to land mode before asking, "Jarvis?"

" _At your service, ma'am."_ The British voice that's been present since I was a baby sends waves of relief crashing over me. _"Sir. I seem to have lost a significant loss of data of the past day or so. May I inquire as to what happen?"_

"In short, J, A.I.M. are assholes," I tell him as I take off over the waves, leading the way back to the West Coast. "They shut you down on the 25th."

" _All the backup locations and everything,"_ Dad interjects. _"We had to go back to basics. Like, 1991_ basics _."_

"Drama queen," I roll my eyes. "All we did was a bit of coding."

" _A_ bit _of coding?!"_ Dad says with a very un-manly shriek.

I studiously ignore him, instead addressing Jarvis as I explain, "Anyways, you went down around 10:45 on Saturday, and it's now…" I glance at the onboard clock. "Wow. Okay. Right now, it's just after five p.m. on the 26th. Dad, we were in there for over twenty-four hours."

" _We could've done worse,"_ Dad replies, unconcerned.

"Yeah, but we were off the grid," I argue. "And no one had any way of knowing where we were for over twenty-four hours, less than a week after a major kidnapping."

" _I'm not five,"_ he grumbles. _"I don't need to check in with mom before going out to play."_

"You're insufferable," I sigh. "I'm gonna put it down to lack of sleep. Still, I think we should call someone-"

I'm cut off by _Bad to the Bone_ (by George Thorogood & the Destroyers) reverberating through my helmet, a picture of Clint popping up on the HUD. I switch off the inter-suit comms before answering the call. "Hey, I was just about to call you."

" _Thank god! It's been over a day!"_ Clint snaps, his voice wrought with everything from relief to anger to fear and everything in between.

But I'd fully expected this, so I just roll with it. "I know, I know, and I'm sorry, but my dad sorta kidnapped me and there was no cell service _but_ we did get Jarvis back up, which is cool."

" _Wait,"_ he interrupts before I can work myself into a full-on ramble. _"Tony kidnapped you?"_

"That's what you got out of that? And no, not really, as I fully consented to everything, even if I didn't have a clue what was going on."

I can hear Clint's sigh of relief. _"Okay. Alright. And why did this involve dropping off the grid…?"_

"I'd like to see you get cell service 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea," I snark.

There's a pause before he says, _"I'm not even going to ask."_ There's another pause and the sound of muffled voice before he comes back on. _"Bruce wants to know why you took off your sling."_

"Because parental permission trumps all," I retort. "I'm fine. The suit is basically a splint."

Clint sounds dubious, but he lets it go. _"But you're okay?"_

"Perfectly fine," I assure him, doing a loop-de-loop simply because I could. "Better, actually. We fixed Jarvis."

" _I know. He popped into the mansion about an hour ago. Scared the hell outta Bruce."_

"No problems?" I ask, which was basically code for 'did Hulk appear? If so, what do I need to pay to replace?'.

" _Nope,"_ Clint replies. _"Hey, speaking of the mansion, are you headed there now?"_

"Yeah."

" _Could you do a detour? The team's meeting at Pasitano's for a thing."_

"A thing?" I ask, as Jarvis pulls up the directions to the Italian place that was about a half-hour drive from the mansion. "An 'Avengers' thing or a 'team' thing?"

" _If it were an 'Avengers' thing, we wouldn't be doing it in a crowded restaurant,"_ my boyfriend points out, in a tone that is clearly long-suffering and a little bit patronizing. _"It's an 'event planning' thing."_

"Sounds good," I agree. "Just let us get changed…unless you rather I showed up in a skintight black undersuit."

"I _would not have a problem with that, babe,"_ Clint says, and I can practically _hear_ the sly smirk on his face. _"But I imagine the_ Times _would have a field day."_

"Screw the press," I fire back, amused, but set course for the house anyways. The suit chafed, after all, and I'd been wearing if for over a day straight. A shower would not be unwelcome, either. "I'll be there in twenty."

" _Great. Love you."_

"Love you too," I reply softly before letting Jarvis end the call and relay the necessary information to Dad before I veer left and kick it into high gear, rocketing forward at insane speeds.

I had places to be, and people to see.

.

True to my word, twenty minutes later – after stopping at the mansion, getting out of the suits, peeling the undersuit off, and basking in a hot shower – Dad and I pull up to the little hole-in-the-wall Italian place that we had found a few years earlier.

A waitress quickly shows us to the biggest table in the place, around which was seated a god, a rage monster, two assassins, two scientists, an intern, and a super-soldier.

 _A_ super-soldier. As in: one.

"Where's Steve?" I ask Bucky as I sit down next to Clint, snatching a garlic roll of the plate in the center of the table.

"Busy," he offers simply. "He's not needed at this meeting?"

I narrow my eyes, slowly looking at every single person at the table. "Is this a _coup d'etat_?" I ask suspiciously. "I thought we only did those on Wednesdays."

Bucky lets out a short laugh while Natasha – who, curiously, is sitting on the other side of my dad – gives me a flat look. "You've found out, then." She turns to Bucky. "She's found out."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Both of you – this isn't a coup, although those _are_ fun. I want to plan a party."

Next to me, Dad perks up = parties are, after all, kind of his thing, and the flashier the better. "I like what you're saying, Barnes. Who's the party for?"

"Steve."

"Aw," Dad pouts. "But he's a buzzkill," he whines, and Natasha reaches over to flick his ear.

"Big baby."

"Am not," he whines again, but Nat just nudges his plate of ziti a little closer with a significant look.

"As I was saying," Bucky continues once Dad's quiet, "I need to throw a party for Steve. A surprise party, obviously. His birthday's on the fourth – he'll be turning 26."

"And also 95," I tease. "Can't wait to triple-digits, _gramps_."

"Shut it, kid," he huffs without any real bite. "His birthday's on the 4th, and I want to do _something._ "

"This is a most pleasing idea, Friend Bucky," Thor booms, quieting his voice slightly when he attracts every eye in the restaurant. "Our comrades could use the rest that a celebration would provide."

"That too," Bucky nods. "But I don't know what to do."

The table is silent until Natasha speaks up. "All of my ideas can't be said in public."

Bucky only looks confused for a moment before it's replaced by a faint look of horror. "I can't – we aren't _dating_."

"Keep telling yourself that," Darcy and I chorus.

"And we _do_ need something to do," I continue. "Whether or not it involves fuzzy handcuffs is irrelevant."

Bucky chokes on his pizza, because _of course_ he knows exactly what I'm talking about, this is what you get when you let Darcy and I re-acclimated the man to the 21st century.

"What does Steve like to do?" Natasha asks.

"Draw," Bucky says instantly, and I roll my eyes because we _knew_ that. "He loves motorcycles. And art."

"Okay," Dad sighs in frustration. "But we already knew that. What did you and Capsicle do _waaaay_ back when? When you weren't octogenarians."

Bucky flicks a piece of food at him, and Dad responds before Bruce quiets it all down – which is a shame, as I loved food fights, but I do agree that we didn't need to be kicked out of yet another restaurant.

Bucky is quiet for long enough that I'm beginning to think we've stirred up something bad, but then he speaks up.

"We used to go to Coney Island whenever we could. I even got him to ride the Cyclone once," he explains, and something flits across his face.

I recognize that look. "I can work with that," I interject quickly. "I can totally work with that."

"Why don't we just _go_ to Coney Island?" Dad asks. "I can have us there in three hours, tops."

"Because I think Steve would notice us dragging him onto the jet," Natasha points out. "You aren't very good at surprises, are you."

"No," Dad responds cheerfully.

"Even if we found a way to get Cap there," Clint adds, "Coney's always really crowded, let alone on the _fourth of July._ And I get that we left 'conspicuous' behind a few years ago, but all eight Avengers in one very public place with their guards down? That's just begging for trouble."

"I agree with him," Natasha offers, and Bucky reluctantly nods.

Nobody wants to argue with the Assassin Squad, so everything goes quiet for a moment, broken only by the sounds of chewing.

Until Bruce asks, "Well, why can't we just bring Coney Island to him?"

I look at the physicist and raise an eyebrow. "I think building a rollercoaster in the mansion would be a little…"

"Excessive?"

"Dangerous?"

"Awesome?"

"Difficult," I finish, glaring at Betty, Natasha, and Darcy.

"No, of course," Bruce nods. "That's not what I meant. Not Coney itself, but _pieces_ of Coney. Like…the beach, for one."

"We've got one of those," I admit with a grin. "Miles and miles of private shoreline."

"And there's a Nathan's about 25 miles from the house," Dad announces. "I can get hotdogs in under two minutes."

"And cotton candy isn't too hard to find," Jane adds.

I lean back in my chair and give the table a satisfied smirk. "Are we in agreement, then?"

I get conformation from everyone, then fix Bucky with a mock-serious look.

" _Operation: Coney Island for Captain America_ is a go."

"…That name _sucks_."


End file.
